Track Marks
by bethchambo
Summary: Sherlock Holmes does not believe in weakness. Nor does he believe in indulgence. But what happens when the famous detective succumbs to his old addictions? It's up to John to help him, and with the help of regulars such as Molly, Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson, and a certain familiar face, he might just do it. But the world is a very unpredictable place.


Sherlock Holmes was a man of very few weaknesses, and his attitude was very much similar when it came to indulgences. But, there were times, when the lonely detective could do nothing but succumb - these times were exceptions, nothing more. It was occasional, and more often than not, harmless towards the man. But then he met Billy. And, as ever, Billy meant drugs.  
Despite the fact that Billy was younger than him, Sherlock always slipped back into old habits when they were together - the lesser man was something of a bad influence. And now where was he? Arms covered in track-marks, with a room out to rent just so that he could afford to continue with his godforsaken addiction. And was it really worth it?

** { y e s }**

Upon hearing the doorbell ring, it took a shameful amount of time for him to recognise, then process, the sound. Yet another side-effect of the drug use; his reactions were becoming sluggish, and at this point, he was losing awareness of it. At the beginning, of course, he'd been ashamed. But now... Now, he was used to it, not even bothering to inwardly insult himself. Slowly, he raised himself to his feet, a grimace appearing on his features as he ran his tongue around the dry interior of his mouth. Had he been clean and sober, he would have done something about it - but in his current state of inebriation, it was something he didn't particularly care about.

He shuffled down the stairs, staring forward with empty eyes, pupils constricted. Reaching the door, it took him at least a minute for him to undo just one lock. Finally, he tugged the door open, brow furrowed somewhat, before he narrowed his eyes, the small amount of sunlight enough to send him into a state of utter discomfort. Sherlock stared at the person in front of him, before, eventually, he put the pieces together.

" - You're, uh... You must be Derek, or Gordon or... Whatever your name is. Come in. Come on, hurry up. You're letting all the... _Light_ in."

Holmes shifted his weight slightly, giving more space for his potential flatmate to enter the hallway. Casting him something of a dirty look, the sociopath bustled past his little visitor, sweeping his eyes over him, and managing to make his deductions with only slight impairment.

_The suit_. Creases from where it had been ironed, a distinct lack of stains, or hairs, but the elbow patches had been sewn on after purchase. Judging by the shape - and fit - of the suit, it'd been purchased several years ago, when the man had been rather more glutinous. That would explain the alterations, of course. So, he needs to keep up appearances. If he was a politician, he would be able simply to buy another suit, or perhaps, get it professionally fixed. As it was, the stitching was that of an amateur, and considering the state of his collar, it was his wife, not his mother. That left two possibilities; teacher, or businessman. Flicking his eyes over him once more, it was confirmed. Businessman. The manner with which he held himself showed he wasn't used to standing in front of people on a regular basis, nor was he accustomed to instilling discipline.

Now what? Ah, yes - _the ring_. Places where it had considerably more sheen on it than others, meaning he frequently twisted it, probably taking it off whenever he was with 'company'. That, combined with the bulge on his right pectoral, was enough to demonstrate that he was certainly an adulterer; phone kept on the inside pocket? There wasn't the slightest of doubts. Left handed, too - nobody makes the difficult reach of putting right hand into right breast-pocket. Pointless, needless effort. Ergo, instinctively, he'd use his writing hand, and put it into the opposite pocket. Far more convenient.

So, a non-monogamous, left-handed businessman, with a deceased mother. Where to go from here? _Oh! _Shoes. Yes, yes... _Shoes_. They'd been enhanced, made specifically for him. This Sherlock knew simply by the shape; collapsed arches. The mud and grass cemented to the underside of the shoes told him that his guest walked through a park each day to get to work, and the fresher layer demonstrated that he'd arrived here, at Baker Street, by foot. The only parks within walking distance of Baker Street were Hyde Park, and Regent's Park. Walking time from Hyde Park to Baker Street - 35 minutes. Walking distance from Regent's Park to Baker Street - 8 minutes. Regent's Park it was. So, he must live somewhere near there. Judging by his gaunt, his manner of speaking... Ah. Yes, of course.

" - Chester Street wasn't for you then, hm? I take it the divorce isn't finalised? You wouldn't be wearing the ring otherwise," Sherlock remarked, almost idly, as he dandered up the stairs. "You can leave now," he called from the landing, "I have a doctor coming."


End file.
